


Ten times you kissed me

by thejourneymaninn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Kisses, M/M, No Angst August, Pre-relationship to relationship, but mainly just, other characters may appear later, prompts, though it mainly focuses on the 'lovers' part, tiny bit of angst for some of the prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejourneymaninn/pseuds/thejourneymaninn
Summary: The first kiss was a mistake. Neither of them had intended for it to happen.So…why does it keep happening?OrThe story of Fenders in ten kisses





	1. 7. 'Unbreakable Kiss' - The type of kiss that really shouldn’t be happening, it’s a mistake, but you just can’t find yourself able to pull away.

**Author's Note:**

> For No Angst August. Each chapter features a kiss for a prompt from [this list ](http://prettyboymaximoff.co.vu/post/153391610561/types-of-kisses-prompts/) starting with this week's theme, their _first kiss_.

As it turned out, leaving them alone while she made off with Isabela and that slippery assassin wasn’t Hawke’s best idea…Granted, she never got tired of suggesting they spend more time together and “work out that avalanche of issues”, yet somehow Fenris doubted she’d expected them to follow her advice to “just have some fun” quite so literally.

They’d scowled after her, at first, pure disapproval etched into their faces as they watched the three of them walk away, giggling and handsy. It wasn’t until long after their lewd comments no longer carried over on the wind that one of them finally moved.

“We should set up the tents. I doubt they will be back before morning.”

Fenris certainly didn’t like the thought of being stuck for the night with the most annoying person he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting (although, thanks to a mere ten minutes in the company of that Zevran guy, the mage had temporarily dropped to second place), but since there was nothing to be done about it, they might as well make themselves comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one could be next to a smelly camp of Antivan assassins, and said assassins’ even smellier remains.

“No, what we really should do is get drunk.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me just right,” Anders snapped, still scowling at the empty path ahead of them. “Screw the tents. I don’t care if their stuff gets stolen. They _abandoned_ us. Ran off with the first pretty elf that crossed our way.”

As if to prove his point, he started to rummage through Isabela’s pack, arranging all the booze he found in an orderly line in the sand before he moved on to the contents of Hawke’s bag.

“You think he is pretty?”

Fenris was startled to find that somewhere between the beginning and the end of the question, he had crossed his arms in front of his chest and raised his eyebrows at the mage. Or rather, at his back, Anders was still ransacking their friends’ provisions and didn’t so much as spare him a glance over his shoulder as he said,

“Why, are you jealous? Don’t worry, you’re still number one when it comes to broody and constipated. But some people prefer their lovers to be a little more on the suave side. It would seem Hawke does, too.”

“I think you misspoke. The word you are looking for is _slimy_.”

The mage let out a snort. “Well, I’m inclined to agree, actually, but I’m not Hawke. Which means I’m stuck with ‘spiky’. Which in turn means I _really_ need to get drunk.”

“Won't your 'spirit' have a problem with that?”

“Well, he doesn’t get a say.” Anders shrugged. “Not today. And don’t think I didn’t notice that stress on _spirit_.”

Deciding that further discussing this particular matter wasn’t worth the endless lecture that would inevitably follow, Fenris chose to remain silent and busied himself with his tent.

“I see, you’d rather continue to play her guard dog.” Anders had finished his furious search for booze and turned to him with one of his usual, unflattering sneers.

“I am setting up _my_ tent, so I have a place to comfortably collapse once I am drunk. If you would rather get shat on by seagulls, suit yourself.”

“That’s…a good point, actually. Alright, you win, tents first, but then we eat every last crumb of food these disloyal jerks have in their bags and drink their liquor until we pass out.”

“Not your worst idea.”

  

They never made it to the liquor. In fact, they’d barely started on the food when Anders deemed it wise to refer to the stale biscuits he was holding out to Fenris as “dog treats”.

From his tone, Fenris could tell that this time, he was more teasing than speaking in actual contempt, but still, enough was enough. One remark, he could let slide, two were pushing the limit of insults he was willing to take from an insufferable man his so-called friends insisted on dragging along. Especially when he’d just been left to rot in the middle of nowhere without so much as a Goodbye.

He slapped the food out of Anders’ hand. “One more word, mage, and this _dog_ will bite.”

The teasing immediately turned back into contempt. “Oh, just you try.”

“What are you going to do, have your pet spirit stop me?”

“Believe me, I don’t need Justice to take you on,” Anders hissed, rising to his feet.

“Is that so?”

“Oh, I assure you, it is. Come on, try me. Or are you too much of a coward?”

They were in each other’s face, fists balled and teeth bared, and for a moment, it looked as though Anders was about to strike – and as though Fenris would do the same, as though that last line would finally be crossed. Throughout the years, they’d snarled and glared, hissed, spat and stuck out the occasional foot when one of them had his arms full of tankards, yet they’d never actually laid a hand on the other, never let it get physical. Something – their loyalty to Hawke, perhaps, or an acute awareness of the danger of their own strength– had always stopped them. And it stopped them again now.

Fenris didn’t raise his fist, didn’t let it collide with skin and bone. He took a step back. Rolled his eyes.

“This is not worth my time.”

He’d expected a sneer, a new incentive to punch the mage after all, but got something suspiciously close to a chuckle instead.

“Maker, we…we’re really bad at having fun, aren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself. I am perfectly capable of enjoying myself.”

“Oh really? Could have fooled me, you look as miserable as always. Clearly, you’re about to get this party started.” Anders’ voice was like liquid disdain, yet there was something different, something…challenging in his posture, in the way he threw back his head and glared at him. “Perhaps we should take a leaf out of Hawke’s book.”

Fenris let out a huff, glaring right back at him through narrowed eyes. The mage’s eyes, however, seemed to be more interested in the derisive curl of Fenris’ lips. As if drawn by an invisible force, his gaze slipped lower, staring, transfixed and unfocused. When it flicked back up, there was something gleaming just beneath the burning layer of anger, and at the sight of it, a hidden, rusty place somewhere deep inside Fenris began to rear its head. He couldn’t have said what exactly it was. And perhaps that was for the best. He might have run if he’d put a name to it sooner. In fact, he _should_ have run…but somehow, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Neither of them knew just how it had happened – that was what they all said, wasn’t it? Well, Fenris couldn’t claim that. He knew how it had happened. Because he had let it happen. If he was quite honest with himself, he might even have been the one who _made_ it happen.

He’d leaned in.

And things got physical after all.

Anders’ lips had been on his within a second, and then _around_ them, moving, sliding, drawing him into his mouth, his arms, and Fenris had sunk into him willingly. Hands pulled and groped and tore at hair and flesh and clothes, but they didn’t hurt, didn’t force, just hungered, begged, claimed with as much insistence as their lips while eyes still flickered, still uncertain, still asking long after their tongues dived further to meet.

Every single part of Fenris ached, longing, straining for more as his mind began to fog. But even in the firm grip of desire, his thoughts were clear. He knew what was happening, knew that it was a mistake, that they shouldn’t be doing this. And he also knew he would follow Anders into his tent.

 


	2. 8. Breathtaking Kiss - It’s the kiss that you can’t do anything for a few seconds after, you keep your eyes closed with mouth agape of you try to let your mind process what happened.

His eyes were traitors. Disloyal, disobedient traitors. No matter how many times he ordered them not to, they kept flicking back to the shimmering copper of the mage’s hair. Which was, if nothing else, at least marginally less embarrassing than all those times they swung to – and then got stuck on – his rear. Or chest. Arms. Eyes. There was simply too much _mage_ , and somehow he happened to be everywhere _all_ the time. Occasionally, Fenris thought he caught Anders sneaking a glance in his direction as well, but for the most part, the mage seemed perfectly happy to ignore him completely. These days, he was so quiet Fenris would have found it unsettling…if he cared. Which he did not. His eyes might be foolish enough to be led astray by the sight in front of them, but Fenris’ mind would never follow them down such ludicrous paths. And why should it? There was no reason for this kind of thoughts, none whatsoever. It had only happened once.

One and a half times, and most.

And the second time hardly even counted; the mage had…he’d almost died. He’d been attacked, surrounded, and if Fenris hadn’t found him, hadn’t got there in time… He’d merely been relieved to find him still breathing; that was the reason he’d… Not for the first time, his ears lit up in enough shades of red to rival a sunset as he recalled how he’d… _jumped_ the mage the moment his eyes finally fluttered open, focussed on him with a soft “Fenris…”

His name had dripped from Anders’ lips like molasses, the letters coming together slowly, and Fenris had been on him before he’d managed to form the last one. He didn’t stop to think if the mage was strong enough, if he could bear the exertion, the weight of another body on top of his; there was nothing but the need to feel him, to reassure himself he was still there. He needed to swallow his name off those lips, savour the awe in his voice, devour him, hold on to him, anchor him to this world. Anders tasted like the health potion Fenris had forced down his throat; he smelled like blood and battle - and he kissed him back, with less force but just as much urgency. In those few minutes before their friends called out their names and Fenris hastily scrambled off him, nothing mattered but their lips against each other, the warmth of the mage’s body beneath his frantically roaming hands. Anders was too weak to raise his arms and pull him close, but he caught hold of Fenris’ hand, keeping it loosely in his feeble grip.

At last Fenris had to pull back for air. He blinked down at the mage, who was staring back up at him as though in a trance. Neither of them said a word; Fenris wasn’t even sure if Anders truly _saw_ him, if he was aware of what had just happened or if his mind was still teetering on the brink of death. Yet when he hastened to bring at least a modicum of distance between them before the others came in sight, the grip on his hand tightened, and even after their friends had gathered around them, Anders wouldn’t let go.

“Fenris saved me,” he croaked around a ragged breath, “He…he came looking for me.”

No one seemed to think much of it (Hawke, in particular, was too busy hunting down every last bandit in a fury of daggers and “You hurt our mage, you pay!”), except Isabela, whose eyes shone with delight.

“Did he now? No wonder you are so…breathless. And you do look awfully ruffled, both of you. That must have been quite a _fight_.”

Fenris had been too dazed to roll his eyes at her, an egregious oversight that still hadn’t stopped haunting him.

Isabela hadn’t prodded them further, which was either a miracle or testament to just how close a shave it had been; she’d simply knelt down and given Anders what Fenris _should_ have given him instead of his tongue, something infinitely more useful in his current state: a lyrium potion.

The mage had eventually – reluctantly – had to let go of Fenris’ hand so he could heal the worst of his injuries. When he was done, he claimed he was well enough to walk on his own, but Hawke was having none of it. She flung him over her shoulder like a sack of noisy potatoes and she and Aveline took turns carrying him back to his clinic (and lecturing him on the dangers of running off by himself). Once there, Hawke immediately ushered everyone out of the room. Fenris didn’t even get one last look at the mage, much less a moment alone with him, and in the weeks since then, Anders had never once brought up the incident. Just like he’d never mentioned _that_ night.

Not that Fenris minded, of course, although he had to admit it was unexpected given Anders’ usual incapability to shut up about _anything_. Clearly, the mage considered the matter so trivial that it wasn’t even worth a snide remark. A little insulting coming from a man who could go on for hours about cats and feathers, but certainly for the best. It had, after all, meant nothing. It didn’t even _count_. Annoying though he might be, after all these years, Anders was as much his companion as any other member of their mismatched little group. It was only natural that Fenris would worry for him, that he would notice his absence, track him down, kill those that had dared to lay hands on him, and be happy he’d survived. He’d merely gone a little overboard expressing that happiness. An accident, nothing more, brought about by a flash of…that other accident. Which might have been memorable, but only because Fenris wasn’t used to touch, to enjoying himself with another; it didn’t mean there was more to it. Granted, it kept buzzing around his head relentlessly, but then, so did mosquitoes, and no one would ascribe importance to those. It obviously hadn’t meant anything to _Anders_. Fenris really had to stop ogling him.

With a determined shake of the head, Fenris strode past the mage to the front of the group. It was, after all, much harder to stare at what was behind him. 


	3. 3. Hesitant Kiss - The type of kiss where their lips brush against each other’s a few times, breath fanning across each other’s faces as one waits for the other to make a move.

He’d tried to dismiss it, he really had. There was hardly anything else to be done about it anyway; it had been a mere spur-of-the moment thing that should never have happened in the first place – and to some extent, Anders still had a hard time believing it actually _had_. This was _Fenris_ , after all, stoic, brooding, joyless, immovable Fenris. Who would have thought he’d be up for a bit of fun? Blighted Broodmothers, Anders wouldn’t even have thought the elf was aware such a thing as fun _existed_ , and he definitely wouldn’t have thought he’d agree to have it with _him_ , not in a million ages.

But perhaps it wasn’t that surprising after all. They’d both been angry and miserable, left to their own devices, and…he might have taunted Fenris a bit more than strictly necessary. Just a bit. Nothing too serious. He’d simply needed to let off some steam, and well, there’d only been one target around…and it wasn’t like the elf had been particularly friendly towards _him_ either. Still, he couldn’t quite deny he might have deserved the punch Fenris had undoubtedly been itching to throw at him. Even if in the end, instead of giving him a thorough pounding, the elf had - well, _actually_ …

He’d been surprisingly gentle about it, though, and so terribly, adorably shy the next morning. The way he’d blushed, refused to meet his eyes as he crawled out of the tent only moments after waking up (and luckily, before Isabela and Hawke returned), bottom lip between his teeth, just like it was now… It didn’t mean anything. It _couldn’t_ mean anything. Andraste’s slipping sanity, Fenris had even said so himself. 

He had to focus on that, not on his gentle touch or the timid, lopsided smile on his face when his hand found his way into Anders’ pants, but on the brusque “This means nothing” that preceded it. Although his careful explorations hadn’t matched the gruff statement at all… And neither had the furtive glances out of the corner of his eye.

Maker, Fenris’ eyes. How was anyone supposed to find themselves face to face with those depths and not…see things? There’d been fear in them the day he’d run straight into those blighted bandits, Anders was sure of it. Fear for _him_. Already low on mana and hopelessly outnumbered, he’d thought he was done for, readying himself for the final blow – but then Fenris had soared through them, blade and body alight, cutting down everyone in his path, and Anders, having just narrowly escaped death, had almost died after all. This time, from lack of oxygen, in that one moment they had alone with each other, when Fenris kissed him like…like he cared. 

They were alone now, too, left behind once again to “keep watch” while Hawke and some dubious elven thief were looking for an entrance to a castle they were, for some reason, trying to break in to. The reason, Anders strongly suspected, being that the elf was pretty and Hawke was a flirt. They’d retreated to an alcove near the gardens, not really “watching” the party all that closely. If Hawke needed them, the commotion (and bodies) in her wake would lead them straight to her. She was special that way.

The nook they’d chosen provided only limited space, meaning Fenris was currently leaning against the wall little more than a foot away from him. His eyes flicked to Anders’ for the briefest of moments. They often did, these days. Ever since that night. He was nicer, too, in a way, but mostly even more withdrawn. Especially since that second time…

It couldn’t just be Anders’ imagination, not _all_ of it, no matter what Fenris had said. There had to be a reason he kept glancing at him. At first, Anders had feared it was because he was planning to strike him down for what had happened between them, but if that were the case, he certainly would have done so by now. And he definitely wouldn’t have saved his life. Or kissed him again.

The elf was so close Anders could have sworn he felt the heat of his body seeping through the stone straight into his. A body he remembered way too clearly considering it had only been one night, with hands that were so different when they weren’t wielding giant weapons, or crushing hearts. Gentle. Tender and attentive, touching with all the care of a lover… But Fenris wasn’t what Anders needed. He wasn’t the kind of person he wanted to spend his life with; he wasn’t on his side. It could never be. But fool that he was, he found himself wanting it anyway.

“It could mean something.”

“What?”

He’d…he’d said that out loud, hadn’t he?

Fenris’ head had whipped around, wide eyes staring at him from an unreadable face. He could have backed down; it would undoubtedly have been the wiser choice.

Well, Anders had never been one to stop when it was wise.

He squared his shoulders, met the elf’s gaze head-on. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

That much was true. Anders hoped. And if it wasn’t, they had nothing to talk about anyway. Of course, in that case, he’d also just made a giant fool of himself… So all in all, just a typical day in his life.

Fenris continued to simply stare at him. His eyes darted all over Anders’ face as though they were trying to find the answer to all of life’s mysteries. They were so…full, unguarded in a way Anders had only ever seen once, that night, for a few fleeting, unshackled moments. There was no scowl on his face, no mask of attack, yet he remained silent.

Well, he wasn’t the only stubborn one in this round. Anders was not to be deterred so easily.

“We could try,” he pressed on, raising his chin as if to challenge the elf to a duel of defiance. Judging by the huff that followed, it seemed to have worked.

“ _We_ could? Are _you_ truly prepared to make an effort?”

Anders tried to keep his exasperation out of his voice. “What do you think I’m doing here?” He wasn’t entirely successful.

There it was, that tiny, tentative smile. It flickered across his face so fast Anders wasn’t sure whether he’d really seen it – but then Fenris took a step towards him, closing what little distance there was between them.

“Are you willing to keep trying?”

Anders could feel each word like a caress against his skin. “Yes,” he whispered, his tongue darting out over his suddenly parched lips, “I am.”

The tip of Fenris nose brushed against his, but neither of them moved further. Anders stared into his eyes, now so close their bright green seemed almost black, wondering if he really should, if they actually _could_ … He licked his lips again, murmuring one final concession.

“It…it doesn’t have to be everything. But it could be…something.” 

And then he stood there, Fenris’ breath fanning across his face, his body so warm, so close, waiting to see if the elf would take the leap. He’d have to be the one, this time, merely leaning in wasn’t enough anymore. Anders had just bared _everything_ ; if the stubborn prick couldn’t even give in this much there was no point…

Fenris’ lips brushed against his, like a ghost, a barely-there breeze, then hovered over them, waiting… Well, he’d be waiting a long time. Anders wouldn’t be the one to start it, not again. He’d done his part, more than his part even, he wouldn’t … Another brush of lips, a little more firm this time, lingering long enough to almost count as a kiss. Almost. Perhaps “almost” was enough after all; perhaps it didn’t really matter who started it as long as…

Fenris lips closed over his.

It was different than the hungry, urgent kisses they had shared before. Slower, softer, as though Fenris was merely testing the waters, feeling around for something more than need and desperation. There was an undercurrent of desire, but it didn’t get to make demands, not yet. It felt like a greeting…a statement. A promise to try.

 


	4. 2. Early Morning Kiss - A kiss that’s a wake-up call, it's barely even lips touching, more like they're kissing your chin because they’re so tired in the early morning haze.

The sun fell through the holes in the roof in thin beams of light and dust motes, drifting over the man beside him in a shimmering cloak. He looked peaceful like this, breath even and the lines on his face smoothed out, still fast asleep and unaware that Fenris was watching him as he did most mornings. Or more precisely, every morning the mage spent in his bed. Not as many as it could have been, but steadily getting more, and more still as the weeks went by. Anders had been slow to wake up ever since the first one, burrowing into the pillows and refusing to get up – or to let Fenris get up. For a man so skinny, his grip had the tenacity of a giant spider’s; several times, they’d nearly been caught by Hawke because Anders would cling to Fenris with all his might, insisting they sleep in. 

“I am surprised,” Fenris had teased him – they could do that now, sometimes, with affection instead of poison. “I would have thought your righteous cause would have you up long before dawn. You usually open your clinic much earlier.”

Anders’ face had turned bright red, another thing that was different now, flustered where he would have been furious. “I...don’t sleep well, normally. Nightmares, Templar patrols…there’s no use lying in when your eyes won’t stay closed. But here…with you…I feel safe. Stupid thing to say, I know, but there it is.” And with that, he’d crawled up even closer against Fenris, stroking a gentle hand across his back yet refusing to meet his eyes.

He wasn’t much like those felines he adored. From what Fenris had seen of them, they were aloof, independent creatures, open to physical affection, certainly, yet only on their own terms. The mage had no such restraint. He wound himself around Fenris at every opportunity, kissing, nuzzling, or simply climbing into his lap like Hawke’s mabari right away. Fenris found he kind of…liked it.

Touch, affection, those things didn’t come naturally to him, but somehow, with Anders, it was getting easier. He made it so clear he needed touch, that it was always welcome, that Fenris was now sometimes even the one to initiate it, hugging him, brushing a hand absently through his hair as he made his way through a book. Words were still as hard to come by as they had always been, but soft kisses, smiles, caresses, that was a language of its own. One he was eager to learn.

Sometimes, it became overwhelming and he was left with nothing but a whirl of confusion and that old, familiar urge to run. Just as often, however, he felt as though all those little things he’d always longed for but thought impossible to achieve were suddenly right at his fingertips. He only had to reach out a hand to grasp them, cradle them in his palm and forever hold them close. If he managed not to break them in his clumsy grip of steel.

Next to him, Anders rolled over with a graceless gurgle, wrinkling his nose at the sunlight. His hand crept across the covers like it always did, not yet fully awake and already searching for him. Fenris pulled him close, brought their foreheads together. He got an unfocused blink in reply, along with an unintelligible mumble that might have been his name…and Anders’ lips, aiming somewhere between his mouth and chin in a part dry, part slobbery bump.

Fenris caught hold of his face and placed a proper kiss on his lips, and another one on his hair, before tucking Anders’ head firmly under his chin.

“Go back to sleep, mage.”

Anders was useless in the morning.

And Fenris found he liked that, too. 


	5. 9. Distracting Kiss - When you are competing, maybe playing video games or something so you press kisses anywhere available; arms, nose, knees, ears, knuckles, temple, just anywhere to distract them.

There was a bit of skin poking out from underneath Anders’ sleeve as he reached up for the ink. Fenris didn’t hesitate; in a flash, he darted out from behind the mage’s back and brushed his lips against it.

“What was that for?” Anders asked, a slight quirk to his lips. He never quite managed to hide those, useless liar that he was. Of course, he knew exactly what Fenris was going for, and that Fenris knew that he knew. They’d danced this particular dance before, many, many times over the course of the last…it had almost been a year now, Fenris realized as he watched Anders attempting to assume a stern expression. “You know I have to finish this. We’ve been too busy with Hawke lately, I’ve been neglecting my manifesto.”

“That’s not all you’ve been neglecting,” Fenris murmured as he leaned over again, this time to place soft, nibbling kisses along the shell of Anders’ ear. He only had a limited amount of bare skin to work with, after all, thanks to the mage’s monstrosity of a coat and countless layers of clothes - as he had learned early on, the answer to “what’s under these robes” was a rather anticlimactic “more robes”. But well, it had never stopped him before. He could work around clothes if he had to.

“I’m sorry, but you’ve got our dragon-obsessed leader to thank for that…Andraste’s arse, Fenris,” Anders gasped at the assault of Fenris’ tongue, which after a brief foray into his ear was now trailing down his neck, “give me some space, I can’t work like this. I’ll be all yours once I’ve finished this, I promise.”

“Only a fool would accept that condition. You have been working on that thing since before we met.”

As he knelt down beside the mage and reached up to nuzzle his head under his chin, Fenris wondered idly whether Anders was truly resolved to continue working or merely indulging him by pretending to believe he could resist his advances when he should have known better by now. If it was merely putting on a show, he was playing it well, squatting him out of the way and bending back over his parchment with an admonitory glare. Fenris watched him for a few moments, then began to inch back towards him until his head came to rest on the arm that was scribbling away furiously.

_“Mages…sin…Andraste…gift…lies…the Chantry…fear…”_

He could not make out all of the words from this angle, but it hardly mattered. By now, he’d seen the mage ‘finish’, and then ‘revise’ the whole thing at least two dozen times. During a particularly sweltering week the month before, when simply leaving your bed had already been too much, he’d been so bored he’d actually read the whole thing…and then bored enough to read it a second time and leave comments in the margins. Since the mage was not to be deterred from ‘perfecting’ his arguments, Fenris might as well point out all the fallacies and omissions he’d found, even if the whole endeavour was pointless – foolish contents aside, when had words ever won anyone their freedom, when had those in power ever been willing to listen? There were better uses for Anders’ time. And right now, Fenris had a very specific one in mind.

He rubbed his head along the mage’s arm, placing kisses onto his coat all the way down to his wrist until he was shaken off again.

“Hey, you’ve made me smudge this whole paragraph!” Anders scolded him in between dabbing his sleeve at the page in a futile attempt to salvage it.

Taking advantage of Anders’ raised arm, Fenris put his head on his knee. “Are you still labouring under the illusion that you can resist?” He trailed a line of deliberately wet kisses up his thigh, grinning as he veered off to its inside and wriggled his nose against the coarse fabric of the mage’s trousers.

There was a sharp intake of breath. Anders’ voice, however, remained firm. “Not everything is about sex, you know.”

Fenris buried his face in Anders’ leg, hiding his smile. “I would certainly not be opposed, but I was, in fact, referring to you lying in my arms, safe and at peace while I stroke your hair until you fall asleep. And before that, a good meal, me in your lap with a book and all the latest gossip about Hawke’s and Isabela’s escapades. I have never seen you manage to resist _that_.”

The scratching of quill on parchment stopped. After a brief moment of silence, Fenris felt a hand ruffling his hair.

“You…make a strong case. How about this, you let me rewrite the paragraph you ruined, this _one_ paragraph, that should only take a few minutes. If you manage to behave yourself for that long, I’ll…”

Before he could detail just what it was he’d be doing in that case, the door to the clinic flew open, hitting the wall with the bang that usually accompanied Hawke’s arrival. And there was another bang as Fenris shot to his feet and away from Anders, so quickly that the hand that had been caressing his hair was catapulted straight into the mage’s face.

“How’s my ever-talented and easy on the eyes – if not always the nose – healer doing on this splendid evening?” Hawke called as she strolled into the room, Varric and Aveline in tow.

“Nursing a nosebleed, apparently,” Anders muttered under his breath with a sidelong glance at Fenris. He pushed back his chair and got up to face Hawke with a sigh. “Hawke, not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but…well, no ‘buts’, actually, when you show up at this time of day, it either means _real_ trouble or _real_ fun, and since _Aveline_ ’s with you….” He sighed again, more dramatically this time.

“What? What is that supposed to mean? I can be fun too. I'd be even more fun if I wasn't constantly busy saving your sorry asses.”

Varric intervened before she could draw herself up to her full-height-arms-crossed-in-front-of-her-chest-eyes-narrowed posture of flaming disapproval. “Well, Blondie, you’re not exactly keeping the most cheerful company either. Everything alright there, elf? You look like you just stepped in a bowl of nug shit.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure, Varric, looks can be deceiving,” Anders said. “He’s actually…”

“I came to the mage for healing,” Fenris cut in. “As far as I’m concerned, hardly a ‘fun’ activity. Nor fun company. And we are not finished, so unless your matter is pressing, Hawke, I would prefer some privacy to address my…ailments.”

“Well, you know Kirkwall, always big trouble in small spaces, but I’d never dream of keeping you from your not-fun. It must be really bad if you came all this way for healing… Do you need any extra potions, Anders? I could drop them off afterwards.”

“No need, Hawke, I’ll come along. I’m actually in the mood to kick some arses.” Without giving Fenris so much as a glance, Anders crossed over to the other side of the room where his staff was leaning against the wall. He picked it up and turned to leave, his mouth a thin line. “Fenris’ problem isn’t that serious…and at this point, I've done all that’s in my power. Whatever lingering itches he might still have will have to sort themselves out on their own. Close the door on your way out, Fenris, will you?”

He was gone before Fenris had a chance to reply. For a moment, Hawke looked at him, bottom lip between her teeth, then she shrugged and followed Anders out of the clinic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @damnedapostate for...reasons ;)


	6. 6. Empty Kiss - When one of you doesn’t kiss back, just the stoic feeling of their lips on yours, it’s empty, like no one even cares anymore.

“Oh. You are still here,” Anders said with what was undoubtedly a huff of annoyance. He strode on into the clinic, head held high in spite of his obvious exhaustion, which was nicely accentuated by the traces of blood and soot in his hair, and rid himself of his gore-splattered coat and staff, not once turning to look at Fenris.

Fenris, who had spent the past two hours trying to force his shaky handwriting into a passable and, most importantly, ink-stain-free copy of the page the mage had been so intent on finishing, got out of his chair and addressed Anders’ rigid back.

“Of course I am ‘still here’. We had plans. I wish to know why you ran off for no reason.”

“You mean the ‘no reason’ of helping my _friend_?” The mage still hadn’t turned around, but from the tone of his voice, Fenris could picture his eyebrows rising as clearly as if he were looking right at them. 

“It was not a matter of importance. Hawke said so herself. I had already convinced her to let you stay.”

“And what a splendid performance that was! Truly inspiring, believe me, I was heartbroken to miss the rest of it, but my friends can count on me when they need my help. In particular, those who don’t look like they need an enema when forced to admit they enjoy my company...not that you’d ever actually do that, of course.”

“Not this again…”

They had danced this much less enjoyable dance before as well. And judging by the way Anders’ head whipped around, there was no escaping another iteration.

“Oh yes, _this_ again.”

“We were alone in your clinic. It would have looked suspicious.”

They had been over this. Was it really so hard to understand that he had no desire for their friends to poke around their most intimate moments? He had little doubt Isabela’s infamous friend fiction would be much less enjoyable when he himself was the subject. Yet it seemed Anders had no such concerns.

“For the love of the Maker, who cares?!” His nostrils trembling violently, the mage glared at him for one long, silent moment. When he spoke again, it was in a quiet tone completely at odds with his expression. “Do you know what day it is tomorrow?”

Thrown by the sudden change of topic, Fenris merely stared at him. “What…day?”

“A year.” Anders was still talking in that eerily calm voice. “A year since you promised you would try.”

“I am aware, mage.”

“Oh, you are? I'm flattered, you’re keeping record of how long you’ve been hiding me like your dirty little secret. All sweet and cuddly when we're alone, like you actually care, but to the world...you'd never stand by my side.”

“We agreed to wait…”

Anders’ voice was rising, the calm demeanour abandoned in favour of wildly gesticulating hands. “It’s been a whole freaking year, this isn’t _waiting,_ it’s you makingit abundantly clear that this really means nothing to you.”

“Why,” Fenris spat, “because I have no desire to be paraded around like your _pet_?” He stopped short, shocked at the acid in his own voice. Where had that come from?

Whatever the source, Anders had no problem matching it. “Of course, I forgot, I’m just a _mage_ , just a viper in your midst, right?” 

He felt himself squirming beneath the mage’s glare, his brief burst of anger melting into shame. Anders wasn’t like that; Fenris _knew_ he wasn’t like that. And yet, even after all these years, no matter how far he had come, no matter how deep he buried it, sometimes, the hate inside him would rear its head like the ugly, feral beast it was, lunging at anyone in sight. It wasn’t the first time it had sunk its fangs into Anders, but it hadn’t happened since…things had changed. Since Anders became the one who mattered most.

He closed the distance between them, leaning in to place a kiss on Anders’ cheek. “I should not have said that.” When the mage refused to meet his eyes, Fenris fumbled for his hand, but the moment he’d caught hold of it, Anders pulled it out of his grip. He tried again: “I apologise. Let us not fight.” There was still no reaction. He wrapped an arm around Anders’ waist, pulled him close and trailed a line of kisses down his jaw all the way to his lips, brushed his own against them in a soft caress, then began to gently suck on his bottom lip, trying to coax him into accepting his offer of peace. Anders’ mouth, however, remained pressed into a thin, hard line. The mage didn’t pull away but made no move to return the kiss. He simply stood there, arms crossed in front of his chest, as stoic and unyielding as a statue, sealed against any attempt at tenderness.

At last, Fenris had to accept there was no thawing him. He stepped back, again searching Anders’ face, trying to get him to look at him, to give him a sign, _any_ sign, what to do. Touch, searching kisses or the gentle trail of fingers along skin asking for forgiveness, had always been enough to soften Anders, to convey the things Fenris didn’t know how to say. Now the mage had shut himself off to it, and Fenris was left with nothing, staring at a face he could neither reach nor read.

Words. Perhaps that was what Anders needed. Perhaps, if Fenris could only find the right ones…But he had already told him he was sorry, that he been wrong to say what he had said, and Anders had shown no reaction. Did he need a better way to phrase it, or something else entirely, or…?

Anders broke the silence before Fenris could make up his mind.

“This is pointless.”

“Anders…”

“Save it, I don’t need your excuses. I know I said it didn’t have to be everything, but you know what, it’s been a year. If I still don’t matter, I never will.”

Fists balled at his side, Fenris fought to hold in the wave of despair and frustration that was threatening to overcome him, but it was no use. Just a few moments ago, words had seemed impossible to come by; now that he wanted nothing more than to hold them in, they forced their way out through his clenched teeth without mercy or care.

“You mean like I mattered when Hawke came calling? How ‘important’ was I then? And how much did I ‘matter’ when you were once again obsessing over your ridiculous manifesto? Hawke, a piece of parchment, I. It is touching to find myself so high on your list of priorities. And how could I forget, there’s still every single mage crawling through this filthy city to consider before you’d ever think of me.”

The realization that he had raised his voice came to him slowly, and as though through a dense fog, he heard Anders hissing back at him.

“Well, aren’t you a treasure trove of bullshit?” The words were spat at his feet with a sneer so full of contempt the last year might as well not have happened at all. “I’m deeply sorry my _obsession_ with such frivolous things as freedom and justice has made your life so _terribly_ difficult. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you, would we? Here’s an idea, why don’t you just _GET OUT AND NEVER COME BACK_.”

The last part came as one furious, barely distinguishable yell. And Fenris found himself responding in kind.

“Fine!”

“ _Fine_ ,” was the last thing he heard as he slammed the door shut behind him.

 

He stormed on, unseeing, the faces and dirt of Darktown a blur around him. His eyes stung; his chest felt too tight. Walking, he was walking, but it felt like falling, tumbling endlessly into an abyss without light or sound. What exactly had just happened? And how had it all gone so horribly wrong?

 


	7. 1.Post Break-Up Kiss - The kiss that catches both of you off guard, but says I miss you, I’m sorry and please love me again all at once without any words being spoken.

Anders didn't want him there, and it hurt, it hurt so much. Everything hurt; there was nothing but pain and despair and confusion. It had been weeks, and Anders wouldn't even look at him. He was so close; he was right there - and he wished Fenris were somewhere else. He probably didn’t care where, or even if Fenris lived or died, so long as it was far away from him. Fenris knew he should heed his wishes. Even if Hawke had asked him to assist Anders, he should have refused, should have come up with an excuse. But he couldn’t; he couldn't resist the chance to see him, to maybe get a smile, a friendly word, a touch, no matter how fleeting.

_I am sorry._

_I miss you_.

Why were these words so impossible to say? Not that it would have changed anything. Anders’ mind seemed made up. And Fenris was no longer on it.

How could such a simple truth hurt so much?

 

For the thousandth time that day, Fenris tried to put the ache out of his mind and focus on the task at hand: restocking and organizing Anders’ supplies.

Hawke had bought several crates of potions, bandages, herbs and other ingredients for the clinic, waving off Anders’ protests with a beaming, “It was such a bargain, I simply couldn’t resist.” She’d needed half of their little gang to carry this “bargain” to Darktown, but only Fenris had been asked to stay and help Anders “put them on his shelves, and maybe clean up this mess while you’re at it.” Fenris couldn’t fathom why of all possible options, she’d choose him for this task, but he’d nodded, at the same time anxious and elated. It would be the first time in weeks that he’d actually be alone with Anders - who was obviously less than pleased with the idea. He kept insisting that Fenris would only be in the way because he “had a system”. He needn’t have bothered; all it earned him was a hearty round of laughter, a clap on the shoulder and the door slamming behind Hawke’s cheerful, “We’ll come pick you up for Wicked Grace later. Drinks are on me. Play nice.”

They’d been at it for almost two hours now, and in all that time the mage had barely said two words to him. When he did speak, it was only to give instructions on where to put certain items and what to throw away. For the most part, Fenris’ job consisted of handing Anders the objects he silently pointed at and depositing the things he’d labeled ‘trash’ in an empty crate. Working side by side as they were, they’d occasionally bump into each other, but the mage never showed any sign he’d even noticed. He kept staring straight ahead, sorting through jars of herbs and potions that looked as though they’d been on the shelves longer than Fenris had been in Kirkwall with an expression of determined concentration.

“These go in the trash.” Anders pointed at the shelf he’d just inspected. “I need to make room for Hawke’s lifetime supply of elfroot.”

The mage hadn’t said that many words in a row all day, but considering he’d addressed the floor instead of his face, Fenris couldn’t find it in himself to get excited. He grabbed as many of the jars Anders’ had indicated as he could carry and dumped them into the nearest crate, knocking a few books off the shelf in the process.

As he knelt down to collect them, he noticed that several loose pieces of parchment had fallen out and now lay scattered all across the floor. He hastened to pick them up – and froze mid-movement.

 

_The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker. If magic is meant to serve man, why lock it away where it can do no good? They say it is to prevent us from ruling, but if we truly are that powerful, why has it been so easy to imprison us? It is not ruling to ask for the same rights as those our magic is meant to serve. The Chantry teaches us to fear what the Maker has given us, but magic…_

 

His own, shaky handwriting, staring back at him, at least twenty different versions of the page he’d tried to copy.

Anders had kept them.

For at least a minute, all Fenris could do was stare. He was certain there’d be an admonishment, outrage at both his idleness and this transgression, any second now, but nothing came. Perhaps Anders was still too intent on ignoring him to notice.

At last, he managed to tear away his eyes, although he couldn’t help stroking his thumb over the pages as he slipped them back into the book. Anders’ gaze was still fixed on the shelf in front of him when Fenris got up and placed the books back where they belonged but…was there a hint of red on his cheeks? And was it concentration that had him chewing on his bottom lip or…something else? Had he noticed? And if he had, did he still care? Perhaps he had simply forgotten he’d stuffed Fenris’ laughable attempt at calligraphy in a musty book and was now worried Fenris might draw the wrong conclusions? Or perhaps…the right ones?

It was dangerous to get his hopes up; he couldn’t fall like that again, couldn’t bear to crash in the certainty that it was well and truly over. But…Anders did seem distracted. Nervous even. Fenris had seen that look before, the constant tapping of his fingers, the way he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding eye contact and licking his lips… He knew all of the mage’s expressions, the subtle signs of his ever-changing moods; the past year had made sure of that, a year of sleeping next to him, touching him, studying him…loving him. All the little things that made him who he was, his smiles and worries, the lines around his eyes and the sharpness of his tongue, his strength, his pain, his gentleness, the scent of his skin and the sounds he made…

No. He mustn’t think of that. He mustn’t forget that he was no longer allowed to touch, to hold and comfort, no matter how much he cared and always would. And yet he could not stop himself; he found himself inching closer to Anders against all better knowledge. The mage showed no reaction. But he did not move away, not even when they reached for the same pouch of herbs and his hand brushed against Fenris’. Flinching a little, he remained where he was, almost shoulder to shoulder with Fenris, merely refocusing his efforts on the shelf above. He had to stand on the tips of his toes to reach it and almost toppled over with the weight of the box he was lifting, but Fenris was right there, catching him, Anders’ body warm beneath his steadying hands, a stuttering breath fanning across his cheeks as their eyes locked. It was only a moment, a fraction of a second, then Fenris retracted his hands and Anders stepped away to put down the box with a barely audible, “Thank you.”

“I would not let you fall.”

The mage’s eyes flickered over his face; he opened his mouth as if to say something – then gave a curt nod and turned his attention back to their task.

They’d made good progress on the shelves, but most of the new supplies were still in the crates. Anders began working on those, without further instructions and back to his maddening insistence on not looking at him. Fenris had no choice but to follow suit, placing herbs and potions on the spaces they had cleared in what he hoped was a sensible order. Which it apparently wasn’t, as Anders kept rearranging…everything. Eventually, Fenris settled for crouching down next to the crate and simply handing its contents to the mage one by one.

Every so often when he passed Anders smaller items, the mage’s fingers brushed against his. Each contact set a jolt through Fenris, an aching jumble of intimacy and loss that he could feel in every part of his body, but he never dared show more reaction than a fleeting glance. Sometimes, he thought he saw Anders’ gaze dart away from him, alarm on his face as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, but for the most part, the mage kept his eyes firmly on the object in his hand. Or the shelf, the floor, his fingernails, anything that wasn’t Fenris.

They worked in silence for what seemed like hours, tense, stuffy, hopeless hours in a room Fenris grew more and more desperate to escape. He’d longed to be alone with Anders, but this, _this_ was torture; every crawling, taunting minute served as a reminder of his ineptitude, of everything he wasn’t and would never be. No honeyed words and irresistible smile, no poise, no strength of heart. Just this brittle thing, fluttering in his chest like a drowning bird, so scared and fragile it would rather whither than fight.

Or perhaps it was simply brave enough to accept that there was no battle left to be won, that his frantic dreams were just that: dreams. Nothing but echoes of what he’d lost, calling to his weakened mind the way demons preyed on fools.

Anders said what was on his mind; he was honest with his feelings, for better or worse. If he still wasn't willing to talk, or to even just look at him, it could only mean one thing: he had meant it when he said it was over. Fenris had hoped that, like his own, the mage’s words had been shouted in anger, regretted the moment they'd crossed his lips, but apparently he'd been wrong.

_Get out and never come back._

He remembered them all too clearly; they still cut through him like knives every time he closed his eyes. And there were other words he remembered, spoken so quietly he doubted the mage had even heard, when he’d held Anders after a particularly vivid nightmare, when he’d cradled his shaking body, almost shaking with anger himself.

_I would do anything for you._

If _anything_ didn’t include leaving when he was no longer wanted, it wasn’t worth much. Anders had made his choice. And Fenris knew how it felt not to be given one.

It was settled then, he would excuse himself and leave the mage in peace, for good this time. He’d have to work it out with Hawke, come up with a good reason why he wouldn’t be able to join them for a few weeks, but that could be dealt with later.

He got up, turned around to announce he had to take his leave – and found himself face to face with Anders. They were so close he could feel his breath; the mage was looking right at him and there was…something in his eyes, something he’d seen before…

Fenris couldn’t have said who had leaned in first. Perhaps this time, there truly was no first.

 

When their lips met, it was with an almost violent crash, a devouring, desperate kind of affection that nothing seemed to satisfy and Anders… Anders was holding on to him as though Fenris was the only thing keeping him standing, like he wanted to drink him in, consume him, and Fenris was more than willing to let him, to give everything he was if it meant he wouldn’t let go. His hands were in Anders’ hair, frantically pulling him close as he put every part of himself, of his lips, tongue, body, breath, and heart, into just one thought, one word.

_Please._

 

At last, they broke apart and stood there, panting, their faces so close they were almost touching, staring at each other, the silence between them more suffocating than their lack of breath. Anders bit his lip, his gaze dropped to the floor, he was about to turn away…

It was his last chance. His only chance. It had to be _now_. He’d sworn to respect Anders’ choice, and he would - but Anders had kissed him, and it hadn’t felt like the kiss of someone who no longer cared. Only a coward would leave without telling him. And Fenris had been a coward for way too long already. He still didn’t have the courage, nor the words, but he forced himself to speak anyway.

“Mage…Anders…if there is any chance…”

Wide eyes flicked back to his.

Fenris plunged on, through the silence. “I know I hurt you. The things I said…I know how much your work means to you. And how much you care. I did not mean it. I was angry. And…scared.” He swallowed. “I know I do not deserve it, but…please. Please…”

Anders’ eyes were still roaming his face, but no words followed, and Fenris didn’t have the strength for more, not without a sign they were wanted. It was time to accept defeat.

And then, just as he was about to nod, to apologize and leave, there were arms around him, Anders, cradling his head, pressing him firmly against his shoulder, his words a rushed, breathless stammer against Fenris’ ear. “Fenris…no no no, Maker, no, Fenris …you deserve it, of course you do, everything you want…if…if this is what you want. I thought…I thought you didn’t…” He paused, took a deep breath and continued, more slowly this time, “It was my fault. I thought…I shouldn’t have…”

Fenris didn’t let him finish. He lifted his head, not letting go of Anders’ but pulling back far enough so that he could look at his face. “No, it… was my fault. I have to start…telling you what I think…how I feel. I never said…I should have…I did not know how to say it. What you mean to me. I still don’t. I.. I am yours.” At this, he met Anders’ gaze and held it. “And I want you to be mine. I do not yet know how. How to have but not own. How to be yours and still belong to myself. But I am getting better at it. I want to learn. With you at my side. I wish to know you. All of you. Being with you is… It _is_ everything, mage. Nothing could be worse than the thought of having to live without you. It is…terrifying.”

Anders nodded, stroking a hand across his back. The gesture was casual, familiar, the way he’d done it many, many times. Before any of this had happened. “I know. It would kill me to lose you. In fact, it did kill me when I thought I had… I’ve been walking around feeling like an empty shell for weeks… So yes,” he said softly, “it is terrifying.”

Fenris allowed himself a small smile. “It is also wonderful.”

“Yes, it is. I suppose that’s the thing with dreams coming true - it is both. I have something to lose now.” The hand on his back stilled as Anders sucked in his bottom lip and added, so quietly Fenris could barely understand him. “That is, if I still have it…”

He brushed his knuckles against the back of Anders’ hand. “Always. If it is what _you_ want. If you can forgive me. This...us...it…it is new. I did not wish to expose it to others while I was still learning to understand it myself. I never meant to make you feel...cheap. Or,” his throat had suddenly become dry, “used.”

“You didn’t…or well, you did, sometimes, but it’s not your fault. You were always so attentive when it was just the two of us, and I…” Anders let out a soft sigh, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. “Fenris….you matter. You always have, more than I can say. There…there are things I have to do. Their lives, they depend on me, I can’t just stop, it’s bigger than us, bigger than my life…but _in_ my life, there’s nothing more important than you. I know I didn’t always make you feel it…”

“I know, mage. I get…frustrated, sometimes. But I do know.”

Anders’ smile was as soft as it was sad. “You weren’t entirely wrong about Hawke, or my manifesto, I did try to shut you out sometimes, because it…hurt. I thought… if you could stay away from me so easily whenever we were with our friends…you would… I hoped it would hurt less if I beat you to it, if I pushed you away before you could do it to me… I’m sorry. I know I asked for more than you were ready to give, it’s just…”

“You asked because it is important to you. And… I am ready to give it. I just need to give it on my own terms. In my own time.”

There was a short pause before Anders spoke again, in a voice so small and uncertain it felt like he had shrunk to half his size. “So…it wasn’t because you’re…ashamed of me? Of us?”

Fenris was left to stare at him, blankly, as the meaning of his words slowly unfolded in his mind, and then came crashing into his gut like a fist of ice. Was that really how he had made him feel?

He took a step back, for once not hesitant to meet Anders’ eyes. “I am not. There is nothing that makes me more proud than having you in my arms. And I want the world to know that too. I am not too fond of the thought of our friends prying and teasing. But you are right. We cannot hide from them forever.”

“No, we can’t. And _I_ can’t.” The mage gave him a timid smile. “Not forever. I need to see you openly stand by my side, at some point. But…it doesn’t have to be right away. I’d be alright with hiding a little longer, until you’re more comfortable with the idea. You know…we could probably find ways to make it…fun…”

Fenris was about to reply, but at precisely that moment, the door flung open and Hawke popped her head into the room.

“Oh yes, please do. Good entertainment is hard to find in this shithole.”

As soon as she’d finished, with a grin that was all smugness and no shame, her head disappeared. In the background, they could hear the unmistakable sounds of Merrill’s and Varric’s giggles, as well as gargling, apoplectic noises that sounded an awful lot like Sebastian.

Fenris turned back to Anders, voice and expression purposefully flat.

“I believe I am ready to tell them now.”


	8. 5.  Can’t Let Go Yet Kiss - The type of goodbye kiss when you keep leaving quick pecks on each other’s lips but end up pulling each other back for more, which could go on for hours if one of you don’t finally pull away.

“In a minute, Hawke. I have some business to finish first.”

“Just make it quick, Fenris, I don’t want to keep Bethany waiting.”

“I make no promises,” Fenris said, one side of his mouth raised in that adorable, tantalizing, bewitching, sexy little smirk that always…

Anders’ admiration was cut short as the hand holding his gave a little squeeze before it let go to cradle the nape of his neck instead.

“ _Business,_ am I?”

“Shush, mage.” More of that will-be-the-death-of-me smirk. Not fair, how was he supposed to keep up his mock offense when he was only inches away from _that_?

“Tsk, tsk, it’s like you don’t know me at all. It takes a lot more than that to make me shut up…”

“I believe I can oblige.” 

With a little pull, the hand on his neck brought him down until their faces were level. And then, in front of all their friends (plus a tavern full of people), Fenris pressed a peck right onto his lips. Followed by something that was definitely _not_ a peck.

After several breathless moments, Anders was brought back to reality (which was, by comparison, rather disappointing) by a sharp, “ _Some_ of us are trying to eat here.”

Well, he’d never let being flushed and panting stop him from flashing his widest, sauciest grin, and he wasn’t going to start now. “Is that a smile I see there, Aveline…? Andraste’s surly grandma, you’re happy for us!”

“Happy to kick your ass, more like it.” In a much quieter voice and, presumably, addressing her tankard, she added, “Although it is nice to see you smile, for once.”

“Well, not to dampen the mood or anything, but all that glowing and beaming is starting to ruin that whole broody rebel mage persona of yours. Just something to consider there, Blondie, you know, a tragic hero with a huge grin is kind of a hard sell… _ouch_.” A loaf of bread, right in the centre of the back of his head. As always, Hawke’s aim was impeccable. “Alright, alright, Hawke, no need to waste supplies, they’re happy, I’m happy, everyone’s happy.”

_Happy_. The word had yet to fully lose its scariness. He felt presumptuous for even thinking it, like he was tempting fate, challenging the Maker to remind him of his place. He’d refrained from using it for so long he wasn’t sure his heart could bear its weight…but yes, he supposed he was. Happy. _Loved_. Fenris had come back. Even after Anders had destroyed everything, when he’d been whiny and needy and stupid, Fenris had come back – and he hadn’t called him any of those things. He’d understood. He’d fought for them, for _him_ , and everything he was. Who would have thought that after years of telling him to shut up, Fenris would become the only one who truly listened?

No, not the only one, Anders thought, a soft smile on his lips as he watched Hawke trying very hard _not_ to tap her foot, impatience radiating from her like the contents of one of her innumerable flasks. He did feel guilty for delaying their departure. Well, at least a little. Certainly not enough to stop, though. He rubbed his nose against Fenris’, felt himself once again getting lost in his eyes, warm and open and crinkled with happiness. Come to think of it, it served Hawke right to wait a little. She was, after all, the reason there’d be no more getting lost in any part of Fenris for him any time soon.

 

“I’m sorry, Anders, you know I can’t take everyone, I promised Bethany I would take her along – don’t give me that look, they _did_ attack her too and I hardly ever get to see her as it is. And Varric has to come with us, he knows how to deal with the Carta, and we have no idea what to expect. Which means I definitely need someone with a huge, scary sword on the team. No, Aveline can’t ‘go instead’, she’s Captain of the guard, she’s got a lot of…captaining to do. I’d never hear the end of it if this whole thing ends up taking several weeks.”

“Yes,” he’d glowered at her, crossing his arms in front of his chest and raising his chin defiantly, acutely aware he’d already lost, “ _that’s_ the point.”

 

For what if it really did take weeks and he’d be left to curl up in Fenris’ bed with nothing but old clothes to keep him company, trying to catch a hint of his scent…Alright, that part wasn’t really an “if”; he’d definitely be doing that, the only question was for how long. He hated the thought of Fenris going on a mission they didn’t know anything about, hated not being able to protect him. Not that Fenris couldn’t take care of himself but…what if he got hurt? As skilled a healer as Bethany was, she didn’t have the kind of access to the spirits of the fade he had. Or the supplementary power of one sharing his body. What if there was some horrible accident, or an ambush, or… He shook his head, biting his lip to suppress a sigh. He was letting his fears get the better of him. Yes, the attacks on Hawke and Bethany had been a nasty surprise, but in the end, it was only the Carta. Hawke disposed of a sizable portion of their organisation on a daily basis, without breaking into a sweat. How bad could it be?

….But what _if_ ….

Fenris seemed to know what was going on inside his mind, at least judging by the amused look he shot him before he placed another peck onto his lips.

“I shall be fine, mage. Cease worrying.”

Normally, Anders would have protested, but Fenris’ lingering touches left little doubt he was just as reluctant to let go as he was. Besides, he hadn’t been quite as surreptitious as he thought when he’d plucked a handful of feathers from his coat and tucked them into one of his gauntlets. Anders cocked his head, grinning at him. “Are you going to miss me?”

“You know the answer to that, mage.” Fenris rolled his eyes, yet didn’t quite manage to keep his mouth from twitching - nor his hands from grabbing Anders’ back just a little bit tighter as he leaned in for a languid, open-mouthed kiss.

Behind them, Hawke made impressively authentic retching noises. “I think I preferred them when they were still pretending to hate each other.”

“Oh, Hawke.” Merrill slapped her arm. “You don’t mean that. You were so worried when they had that big fight! And they’re so cute, aren’t they?”

“Well, that’s _one way_ to put it. Not the first that comes to mind, though…and wasn’t there something about… _finishing_ him…?” Isabela was positively purring.

“I am _still_ trying to eat, thank you very much,” Aveline cut in sharply. “And Fenris, don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“I suppose I really should…” Succumbing to Anders’ secret weapon Fenris trailed off, tightening his hold on him and placing a line of kisses down his jaw. Hah! The elf wasn’t the only one who knew how to bring on the puppy eyes.

He blew Hawke a kiss over Fenris’ shoulder. “Just one last one for the road.”

“That’s what he said…about _twenty times_ _already_ ,” she muttered around a half-smile that betrayed what Anders decided was best described as resigned fondness. Nevertheless, she had lost the fight against her wildly tapping foot and was now also drumming her fingers on her elbow

Anders ignored her. He flung his arms around Fenris’ neck and proceeded to properly say Goodbye - with a kiss that, going by Merrill’s excited giggling, made all their prior ones seem chaste.

Aveline let out a disgusted noise. Yet out of the corner of his eye, Anders thought he caught another smile.


	9. 9.  Quick Goodbye Kiss – It’s the almost late for work kisses when their lips just peck yours, like an unfinished goodbye.

It had been little more than a peck, a fleeting scratch of stubble against his cheek, lips brushing his own in a soft, dry meeting, a murmured Goodbye drifting past his ears, barely even heard.

Anders swore he hadn’t known – and how could he have? How could anyone have predicted that Meredith would choose this of all days to strike, that his call for action, his last, desperate measure, would get in the way of “until tonight, love”?

Yet there was no denying that he had known he would do it _someday_. Each brief, distracted kiss on the way out could have been the last. And had things played out differently, Fenris might have been left with nothing more than that. A Goodbye of crushing finality, buried in a morning ritual so ingrained it was no longer given any thought. No future with the man he loved, no explanation. Not even a last gesture of recognition.

In the rubble and dust, the smoke and screams, all Fenris saw was this one fragile moment. The tiniest fragment of their lives together, too common, too weightless to be noticed. Gone before he had a chance to cherish.

It seemed impossible to forgive, yet sitting next to Anders on a cold rock overlooking the sea, a brief respite before they’d have to continue running, Fenris was determined to find a way.

There would be yelling, there would be tears, but the pain would fade, the anger cool. Because Anders’ light still shone as bright as ever. In Fenris’ heart. And the world. There’d been no blade in the hand Hawke reached out. She’d pulled the mage back to his feet, and then she’d turned around and fought his fight, at his side.

“It’s our fight, stupid,” she’d said, a grim smile on her face as she shook her head. “Get it through that thick skull of yours that you’re not alone in this, will you?”

It hadn’t been their last kiss after all. She’d made sure of that.

Fenris would not waste this gift. 


	10. 4. In The Moment Kiss - Maybe it’s in the middle of an argument or you just looked too damn beautiful not to kiss, but their lips were hot against yours and it felt too good to stop.

“Why don’t you just leave a trail of feathers for the Templars? Or better yet, put up signs. Carve ‘Anders was here’ into every tree.”

“They had them cornered! I had to do something!”

“Five grown mages in full command of their powers and they needed you to protect them?!”

“They’ve been in the Circle all their lives. They know nothing about the real world, they never learned to defend themselves – do you think they teach us how to counter Templar attacks? They _want_ us helpless! I didn’t free them just so they’d be slaughtered the next day.”

“You ceded control to Justice. You were _glowing_. Are you truly enough of a fool to think they do not know what that means? That they would not recognize you? All it takes is for one of them, _one_ , to reach their commander and all their forces will descend upon us. What were you thinking?” His voice echoed off the walls of the tiny cave, and Fenris realized he had started to shout. There was no way the others, who’d made camp outside to ‘give them some privacy’, hadn’t heard, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Anders had been foolish. _Careless_. Always so obstinate, always trying to do everything by himself when Fenris was _right there_.

Anders was pacing up and down the limited space of their refuge, shouting as well now. “And what would you have me do? Turn my back on them? Leave them to their fate, let them be killed, not my problem? Or run off in the middle of the fight to chase after fleeing Templars? I can’t be everywhere I’m needed at the same time…” His voice broke; his flailing hands began to still. “Look, I’m sorry some of them got away but—“

“They did not.”

“What?” The pacing came to an abrupt stop.

“No Templar got away. Because _I_ chased them. And disposed of them.” _You’re welcome_ , he was about to add, but something about Anders’ sudden stillness made him hold back.

“You…were there?”

“How do you think I know what happened?”

“I…I didn’t see you. Not until after the battle, when you started yelling at me. I thought that was when you arrived…”

The mage’s teeth had his bottom lip trapped between them, worrying at the already abused skin, his eyes, filled with a blend of shame and awe, kept flicking to the ground, then to Fenris’ face, then back to the ground in rapid succession, his hand was busy removing non-existent lint from his sleeve. Some, perhaps most, might say helpless, wide-eyed staring wasn’t the most flattering look for Anders. Fenris, however, wasn’t one of them. To him, Anders was always handsome, be it mussed up with sleep and drool or covered in the entrails of their enemies. But this wasn’t merely about beauty. It was the first time in weeks that Fenris caught a glimpse of Anders without his mask of stoic determination, his guilt worn like armour, his head offered up on a platter of self-sacrifice. Fenris had spent the last weeks desperately trying to chip away at this façade, barely even making a dent – and now, without warning, it was suddenly right there in front of him, laid bare for this one, precious moment: Anders’ real face. Cracked, not broken, scared and fragile, still proud, still defiant even as it was begging for reassurance.

Fenris couldn’t _not_ kiss it.

He was on Anders before he even realized he’d moved, parted chapped, bloodied lips with his own as he pulled him close. His tongue darted out in question - the answer came instantly, hot and slick, drawing him into scent and heat and taste, he needed more, every last bit of breath, of him, of them, flowing into one another but still not enough, even the tiniest fraction of distance felt like too much. Anders’ hips were flush against his, just the faintest hint of grinding in the frantic press of his body. Somewhere in the flickering remains of his consciousness, Fenris was aware that they should be _talking_ , that he wasn’t done shouting yet, but he couldn’t let go of Anders’ tattered coat; it was damp under his hands, as solid as the ground beneath his feet, worn out and faded but still there, still real, still his. His fingers twisted in the fabric as he forced his eyes open, taking in Anders’ face. The mage’s expression was dazed, but the eyes looking back at him were clear, open like they hadn’t been in a long time. Fenris tightened his hold, keeping Anders in place and pulled back just far enough to whisper, “Did you truly believe I would not follow? That I would not notice you were leaving? _Abandoning_ me?”

“I didn’t abandon you. You were safe with the others. I’d never have left you all by yourself… And I _was_ going to come back.”

“ _If_ you survived.”

“I—“

“We both know it. Do not lie to me.”

Something in Anders’ eyes clouded over. He wrenched himself out of Fenris’ grasp, not quite walking away but putting enough distance between them to make touching impossible.

“Well, what can I say, that’s what I do, isn’t it? Lying, going behind your back, plunging us into chaos.” He kept rocking back and forth on his heels, his face split by a wide, frozen smile devoid of any trace of joy.

“You had your reasons, then. There is no reason to lie now.”

Anders’ huff bounced off the surrounding stone like a bark. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have tried to stop me? Just a few minutes ago, you were yelling at me for getting involved.”

It took every ounce of will Fenris possessed not to start yelling again _right now_. “I did that because you ran off alone, unprepared – and see where it got you. Had you told me, I would have gone with you. As would Hawke. And Isabela too, I assume. She keeps mentioning plans for a ‘sail made of Templar skirts’.”

“Fenris—“

“Do not give me that look. We made our choice, allof us. I would have thought Hawke made that clear. You are not alone in this, so stop acting like you are.”

“Well, excuse me,” Anders snapped, “that’s quite a lot to ask considering everyone I’ve ever met in my life made it clear that I _was_ alone in it.”

There was a long pause. Then Fenris said, quietly, “That is not fair.”

Another, equally long pause, eyes that refused to meet his and at last, an even quieter reply. “I know. And…I wasn’t talking about you. Not anymore. You don’t deserve any of this. But it’s a hard habit to break.”

“Actually _trying_ to break it would be a good start. Leave the tragic heroes and epitaphs to the dwarf. It is not ‘time to leave the Champion’s side’. You know her, if it were, she would tell you. And don’t even think about leaving _my_ side. You asked for everything. You got it. I intend to hold you to that promise.”

What followed was the longest pause yet, long enough to make Fenris start to fear Anders was about to tell him that he would, in fact, leave his side, that his promise had lost its meaning, that Fenris paled against the freedom at his fingertips, the fight he had sworn himself to. He’d hinted at “removing the danger of his presence” often enough, but until now, Fenris had managed to convince himself it was merely a foolish notion whispered to him by his feelings of guilt, not something he actually desired. Had he been wrong? Was he, after everything, after _surviving_ , now going to lose him anyway, not to death and destruction but by Anders’ own choice?

_“Anything” includes walking away when you are no longer wanted_. The words drifted through his mind, a distant memory transforming into an all too present pain. He’d barely had the strength then, and that had been _before_. Before all the years, the memories, the threads and bonds and promises. What would remain when _everything_ ceased to be?

A soft voice reached into the icy currents of his thoughts. “You…you still love me, don’t you? You really do.”

Fenris blinked at him, startled. “Of course.”

“And you’ll stay with me…”

It wasn’t really a question, not with the way Anders was smiling, like a light shining inwards.

“Of course,” Fenris could feel the same smile taking hold of him, the warmth in its wake melting the ice. “And you still love me.”

Also not a question.

Anders took a step towards him. And another. And another, until he was right in front of him.

“Yes. Nothing could ever make me stop.” His hands reached up to cup Fenris’ face. “And when I die, Justice will take my love with him to the Fade, where it will live on for all eternity.”

Cocking his head, Fenris looked up at him. “That does sound preferable to drowning us in blood. Has Justice been practicing?”

“Isabela may have taught him a thing or two about poetry.”

Fenris placed his hand on Anders’ cheek and pulled him down so that their foreheads were touching. They stood quite still, caught in the same, giddy smile.

“I do love you, Anders. That will not change.”

“And I am yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

“We have already established that means _forever_.”

“I know.” Anders brushed his nose against his. “I just wanted to hear it again.”

He gave Anders’ nose a little nudge in return.

“You are incorrigible, mage.”

“Yep, know that too. _Your_ incorrigible mage, to be precise.”

“So you do remember. Try not to forget it next time you run off to save the world. I like it better with you in it. And I am not the only one.”

Fenris could feel, more than see, Anders biting his lip. “I promise it won’t happen again. From now on, I’ll give you a choice…but _you_ have to promise me you will respect mine. Even if it’s dangerous. Even if you don’t agree. If you feel you can’t join me, I won’t try to make you, and I will _always_ return to you, but you have to let me do what I have to do. I am yours. But I am also still the cause of mages.”

“I am aware. And I promise.”

Anders gave him a shrewd look through narrowed eyes. “That…was a lot easier than I thought it would be. Too easy. You’re not even lecturing me on planning and strategy and recklessness…”

“There is no need.” Fenris had saved his sweetest smile for exactly this moment. “Hawke wants a word with you too.”

Anders blinked. Then swallowed. Then cleared his throat. “Ah…so you’re the ‘good guard’ then, buttering me up so I’ll never see it coming when she tears me a new one…”

“No. _That_ would beIsabela’s part. I am merely an outside party enjoying the show. They know better than to get me involved – in the end, I will always choose your side. But do not think for a moment that means I will not shout at you in private when you are being reckless.”

Anders pulled back a little, tilting his head, a hint of crinkling around the corners of his eyes. “There'll be a lot more yelling, won't there? But…we'll make it through.”

“Knowing you, it might get worse before it gets better, so yes. And yes.”

Anders smiled.

And kissed him.


End file.
